


Dank

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo got more than he bargained for from <br/>consorting with rough men in Bree. Strider can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dank

Frodo scrunched up against the back of the cold cell wall,  
covering as much of himself as he could with his worn cloak.  
His furry toes peeked out, but there was nothing he could do  
about that. His cloak simply wasn’t large enough. He bit his  
lip, shivering, trying to remember when last he had felt toasty  
warm.

But he had to admit that it was almost a relief that the  
lawmen of Bree had finally caught him delivering pipe-weed  
to Bill Ferny and his wicked Dunlander friends.

That is, it would be a relief if he didn’t now feel so ill. He had  
shaken uncontrollably since the gruff guard had left him  
alone in the dark, with nothing to eat or drink. He thought  
then that the shivering had been shock or fear or any  
number of things, but when he touched his forehead it felt  
warm, and his muscles ached like never before.

And there were other problems that made even sitting still,  
even scrunched up in his back corner, nearly unbearable –  
problems so humiliating that he would never tell a healer.  
Blisters had formed on his bottom and in his groin area, and  
oh, how it burned when he relieved himself. And in recent  
days, before he had been arrested, when Bill Ferny’s men  
had had their bit of fun with the halfling messenger, it had  
hurt more than ever before. Bill had taken to stuffing a filthy  
cloth in his mouth to keep him from screaming with the pain.

  
***

Frodo came out of a doze, recognizing the deep voice of the  
guard. “…refusing all food and drink….don’t want him to die  
here. It don’t look good and all. Not after the last one.”

A low voice, dangerous, answered him, “I am glad you  
brought me. He should not be here at all. If this hobbit has  
broken the law, he should be with his own people.” He  
paused. “It smells rank in here. Does nobody clean in here?”

Frodo tried to control a shudder and kept his eyes tightly  
shut. He did not want to meet such a dangerous and  
determined stranger. What would he think of a hobbit who  
had smuggled pipe-weed and had given himself to filthy  
men? He studied the stranger through his mostly closed  
eyes.

The man was dressed in green and brown, as if to disguise  
himself in the wild. A mask covered his face, but it did not  
hide his gleaming eyes, which rested on Frodo with such  
scrutiny that Frodo felt like a rabbit must when a hawk is  
circling above. Bilbo once told tales of the Rangers who  
protected the borders of the Shire from evil, and this man fit  
their description.

Bilbo and his tales, Frodo thought, swallowing against his  
bitterness. Bilbo, who had left without checking his will for  
loopholes and who had underestimated the ruthless cunning  
of the Sackville-Bagginses.

Frodo would pretend to be asleep, that was all. Perhaps the  
Ranger and the guard would both go away and leave him in  
peace…although he longed for the courage to beg for a sip  
of water. The mug of water, brought just that morning along  
with the usual slice of stale bread, sat at the front of the cell,  
near the bars, and it was too far a crawl when his body was  
wracked with such aches and shivers. He had vomited three  
or four times, and he imagined that was the stench the  
Ranger had noted.

“Who is this hobbit?” the Ranger asked. Long weapons hung  
from his waist, and his muddy boots looked as though they  
had spent decades tramping through every imaginable  
muck.

“A Frodo Underhill. A Shire hobbit, not one of ours.”

“And what did he do to earn jail time?”

“Pipe-weed smuggling. Selling it and who knows what else  
to men for coins.” He chuckled just a little. “I’m thinking this  
hobbit has had a lot of grubby hands on him, being so pretty  
and all. He was pretty bruised, at any rate. Not many of the  
halfling folk look like him. I’d be a little tempted myself if I  
weren’t an honorable man.”

“I see.” The Ranger’s voice grew cold. “Make sure your  
honor remains larger than your foolhardy tendencies, Arol.”  
Frodo squeezed shut his eyes, especially when a strong  
hand gripped his shoulder and shook. “Wake up, Mr.  
Underhill.”

Frodo could see it would be useless to fool the ranger into  
thinking he was asleep. His eyes flew open, and he looked  
straight into gleaming gray eyes, and the panicky, breath-  
taking thought flew through his mind that this Ranger could  
break his neck without thought –

Frodo squeezed back against the wall, panting and covering  
his face with his cloak.

“Hush…hush…” The Ranger kept his voice even, as he  
might to a wild animal. “I’m not going to hurt you. I am called  
Strider…I’m here to help you.”

“He weren’t so afraid of men, last I heard,” Arol the guard  
said. Frodo had forgotten he was there, and his cheeks  
flamed with humiliation.

Strider’s voice was rough. “I will take it from here. I shall give  
you a call when I am finished.”

Frodo’s heart beat wildly. Now he was alone with this  
Ranger, who would do with him what he will, now that the  
guard was gone. Of course, had Strider wished to harm him,  
Arol would not have been able to stop him.

“Frodo…look at me. I must look you over. You’re ill.”

Frodo slowly dropped his cloak. His eyes burned with fever  
and his throat was parched, so parched. He had been thirsty  
for over a day now, but it had been far too much effort to  
crawl across the cell and to put the mug of water to his lips.

“Why…” Frodo croaked. “Why…?”

“I will not allow them to let another of your kind die in here.  
Hobbits do not thrive locked up in jail – it kills them as sure  
as a plague. I’ve told Bree’s mayor before, if a hobbit breaks  
a law and earns jail, they might as well slit his throat and be  
done with it. He grew angry with me, but history does not lie  
– not one hobbit has survived jail.”

Frodo looked for kindness in the stranger’s eyes, but he saw  
only shaded gray.

“Why do you care?” Frodo managed at last. “I am filthy and  
used.” He dropped his eyes, suddenly humiliated that this  
Ranger should know –

And then he suddenly realized that he could not have Strider  
examine him. Plenty of filth had been thrust into him in  
recent weeks. Each time Frodo had brought Bill Ferny what  
he was supposed to, there were always a couple men who  
wanted to taste halfling. The first time it had been forced.  
Frodo had cried out for help, but nobody had heard as three  
men ripped his clothes off and had him on the floor. The  
floor had been filthy with mouse droppings, garbage, and  
worst of all – Bill Ferny and his men did not always bother to  
leave their cottage when they relieved themselves and the  
cottage stank of it. But they had given him a purse of coins,  
and it had been enough to buy himself two nights at  
Butterbur’s inn so he did not have to sleep outdoors. After  
that, he had acquiesced because he found if he did so, only  
one would take him, and it would be gentler, and he always  
got paid enough to have a place to lodge. At any rate, his  
clothes, which were all he had now, were less mussed and  
ripped. And at times, he was ashamed to admit, he found  
that he experienced little bursts of pleasure – or, he should  
say, little feelings of what it could be if he were doing such  
an act with one who cherished him.

Strider unclasped Frodo’s cloak. His fingers paused over the  
top button to Frodo’s shirt when Frodo started to tremble.

“I give you my word, Frodo, that I will not harm you.”

Frodo closed his eyes, his cheeks burning. He tried to relax.  
Despite most of his experiences so far, he knew that men  
could be gentle and kind. And this man -–with his steely  
eyes and voice that could send anyone fleeing for his life –  
was yet still kind. Oh, it would have been marvelous if he  
had first met someone like Strider.

He felt his shirt gently pushed over his shoulders. He  
trembled from cold, from anticipation that this man should  
see him unclothed –

Strider let out a furious gasp, and Frodo’s eyes flew open.  
Strider stared at Frodo in black fury, and Frodo stared back  
at him, eyes impossibly huge with appeal, hoping at least  
that if Strider struck him, he would hold back some of his  
strength so that he did not break his jaw or nose.

“Who did this to you?” Strider demanded, and now Frodo  
realized that he was staring in anger at the bruising on  
Frodo’s upper arms and abdomen. Frodo looked down at  
himself, deeply ashamed. He had put himself in a position of  
taking coins in exchange for random punches and kicks to  
his belly when Bill Ferny was displeased with the quality of  
leaf, violent thrusting from men who had gone without for too  
long and yet held a healthy disdain for hobbits. He had  
endured being called names like “Shire rat” and “vermin,”  
and having his feet hair pulled at in malicious teasing.

A strong finger slid under Frodo’s chin, forcing Frodo to meet  
the Ranger’s gaze. “Such a person – or people -- I would  
gladly meet with my sword. You should not feel shame.”

He then took off his long cloak and laid it on the dank cell  
floor. “Come,” he whispered to Frodo and helped him lie on  
his back on the cloak. “Would that I had a little more light in  
here, but what little sunlight comes from that window will  
have to do for now.”

Frodo felt a little better. However frightening, Strider spoke  
always in a gentle voice.

“Please.” Frodo begged as Strider unbuttoned his breeches.  
“Please do not look there.”

“I must,” Strider said. “I will be gentle.”

Frodo thought he might die from humiliation if Strider were to  
see the crusted blood, bruising, and torn flesh on his bottom.  
Any sympathy for him that he harbored would take flight and  
he would declare that Frodo deserved his fate for allowing  
himself to be used in such a way.

Strider ignored him and gently pulled down Frodo’s  
breeches. His strong hands felt up his hips and in his inner  
thighs. There they paused, feeling at the blisters that had  
developed there recently. Frodo’s cheeks burned until he  
marveled that they didn’t catch fire.

“How long have you had these blisters?” Strider looked at  
Frodo with troubled concern.

Frodo shook his head. “I do not know,” he whispered.

Strider released a sigh and continued. His hands again  
paused when they reached his bottom. As Frodo feared, he  
turned Frodo around so that he was lying on the cloak on his  
stomach and Strider was kneading, prying, and poking at his  
sore bottom. Frodo stifled a cry, bit into his sleeve to keep  
from crying out each time Strider touched a bruise or sore.  
He said nothing, and he turned Frodo over once again so  
that he lay on his back again. Frodo dared to look at him,  
but he looked impassive.

His hand moved over Frodo’s abdomen, his brow creased  
with what looked like worry or heavy concentration. He  
hummed something under his breath, and Frodo found  
himself soothed, despite the horror of having this Ranger  
know his deepest shame. Large fingers slid over his slightly  
rounded abdomen, which Frodo still found mysterious since  
he had hardly eaten in days.

Finally, Strider met his eyes. “Frodo, I want you to relax for  
just a moment. I’m going to do something you may find  
unpleasant.”

Frodo nodded, too mortified to respond or to ask questions.

“Spread your legs.”

Frodo glanced at him, questioningly, and Strider nodded  
again. Frodo couldn’t tell if the man was concealing anger at  
what had happened to him or revulsion at the used hobbit he  
had already agreed to help. He was most likely regretting his  
decision now.

Frodo obeyed, although spreading his legs caused his sore  
bottom a sudden burst of pain.

“Easy,” Strider said. “Easy.”

A hard cold finger poked prodded into Frodo, feeling around,  
while a heavy hand rested on Frodo’s abdomen.

“Look at the ceiling and imagine the green hills of the Shire.”

Frodo closed his eyes instead. If he thought about the hills of  
the Shire, he would think about Bag End, and then a cry of  
pain and loss would burst from his lips. This grief came not  
so much because he had no home and no belongings to  
speak of now, but because everything from the one time in  
his life that had been good – the ten years spent with Bilbo in  
Bag End – had been erased and gone forever. The  
Sackville-Bagginses had given away or sold all of Bilbo’s  
belongings and had redecorated Bag End to suit their  
pleasure. Frodo wished he could think about food, but he  
feared if he did so, he would vomit again, and this time, it  
would be right in front of this stern Ranger who must already  
consider him the lowest of the low.

Strider pressed Frodo’s legs open further. “I’m sorry if this  
hurts you.” Frodo’s heart began to speed up. Perhaps  
Strider was not here to help at all. Maybe he just wanted a  
“taste of halfling” like all those men at Bill Ferny’s. Perhaps  
he was doing it under the disguise of helping—

With a sudden cry of rage, Frodo battered Strider with his  
fists, moving backward off the cloak, forcing Strider’s finger  
out. “Don’t touch me – I know what you want!” Frodo cried.

Strider sat in stunned silence for only a moment before a  
mixture of pity and disappointment came over his face. Then  
he shook his head. “No…no.”

“You’re all the same,” Frodo said, breathing so fast he could  
hardly get the words out. “You only take what you can with  
no care for the consequences. I was once a gentlehobbit of  
good name, and I have nothing now, nothing. Not even my  
honor. And you…you come with kind words, but –“ Strider  
had moved toward him and Frodo cried out, “Stay away!”

Strider put his hands out, palms up. He was on his knees.  
“Frodo, it is all right. I promise you I have no intentions other  
than to help you. And you need a healer. I will talk to the  
mayor about releasing you into my care. You will not be free  
to go as you will because you have committed a crime in the  
village of Bree, but I will make certain you have the best  
care.”

“I’d rather die here in jail than become what you would want  
from me,” Frodo said, narrowing his eyes as he pictured  
night after night of groping hands and that awful, burning,  
thrusting pain because all men wanted to feel the tightness  
of a halfling. Gentleness was in none of their natures. At  
least here in jail he was most likely safe. For now, the guard  
did seem to have honor left in him and he had not tried to  
touch him.

“Frodo,” Strider’s voice became stern. “Frodo, you have a  
serious disease that will kill you if you do not have treatment  
for it. And there’s something else.” He swallowed. “I do not  
know how to say this.”

Frodo looked at him in puzzlement.

“Mostly the hobbits of Bree keep to their own and the Men of  
Bree mind their own affairs. That arrangement has always  
worked splendidly in Bree with little problem. But  
occasionally…” And then Strider actually smiled just a little,  
which piqued Frodo’s curiosity. “A hobbit has found comfort  
with a man. When it is a hobbit lass, childbirth is risky, even  
under the best circumstances, even with a hobbit lass who is  
healthy and young. But when it is a male hobbit, it has been  
known to change nature altogether.”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked, too curious now to be  
afraid of Strider. “A male hobbit?”

“There have been male hobbits here in Bree who have found  
themselves with child.”

Frodo laughed a little, but stopped when he saw that Strider  
was not laughing. “You are snaring me in falsehood. This is  
not possible.”

“No,” Strider said. “It is true, for I have treated several of  
them in secret. Their families were mortified and they did not  
wish the local healer even to catch wind of it. Mostly, the  
babies did not make it to term and did not survive. In some  
cases, the hobbits have not survived. Only one child has  
survived and is still healthy. His name is Robin and he lives  
with Tommy and Bart, a hobbit and man of Bree who live  
together.”

Frodo’s cheeks burned. “I don’t understand how this is  
possible.”

“Frodo, you are with child.”

Frodo’s cheeks burned furiously and a black haze fell before  
his eyes. Either Strider was the most wicked man alive, who  
had nothing better to do than to torture downtrodden hobbits,  
or…or…Frodo gasped for breath. “No…No…”

“You need proper care. Please allow me to take you  
somewhere where you can receive it.”

  
***

Frodo’s belly was quite rounded now, and he actually smiled  
as he patted it. The mayor had been willing to release Frodo  
under the condition that he was under the care of the  
Ranger. To him, that was a fate far worse than staying in  
jail, and it had the added benefit of getting to wash his hands  
of responsibility if the sick halfling perished.

Although Frodo was not allowed to leave the lodge on the  
edge of Bree, Strider was kind to him. He spoke always in a  
low, soothing voice, he smiled, and he never forced his  
hands or mouth on him. In fact, he showed no interest at all  
in him, aside from caring for his health.

“Come now, Frodo, hop on up on the bed. I must see if any  
of those blisters have gone down at all.”

“Must you?” Frodo murmured in contentment. He was curled  
in the armchair in front of the fire. “For once I am feeling  
awfully peaceful. I’ve not been sick at all today.”

“Have you felt movement at all?”

“Yes,” Frodo said with a soft smile. “Quite a bit, as of late.  
He…or she is quite active.”

“I still must check that other matter. I am glad at least that  
the bruising has faded down there.”

Frodo’s smile faded. Never could he fully rid his memory of  
Bill Ferny and his rough hands.

“I am sorry,” Strider said, his eyes filled with pity. “I should  
not remind you of that.”

“It is nothing,” Frodo turned his head away, but he obeyed  
Strider and climbed onto the narrow cot-like bed.

“No,” Strider said, fastening something to one of the  
bedpost. It looked like a horse stirrup, and that was certainly  
odd indeed. “It is not nothing,” he said roughly. “And I have  
no qualms of guilt for what I did to that snake’s nest.” He  
fastened what looked like another horse stirrup to the other  
side.

Frodo clenched his hands together, trying not to think. He  
could still feel Bill Ferny’s hot air on his neck, his tongue  
licking his ear, the searing, ripping pain that filled his bottom  
as he forced his way in.

Strider gently helped Frodo tug his breeches down. While  
Strider seemed not to feel anything toward him other than  
pity and the desire to heal, Frodo’s cheeks burned. He  
stared at the ceiling, unable to look into Strider’s eyes while  
he could see so much of Frodo.

“All right, now, I want you to scoot down, all the way down.”

Frodo frowned, puzzled, but he obeyed. When he scooted  
down the bed as far as Strider wanted, Strider took one of  
his feet in hand and slid it into the first stirrup.

“What are you doing?” Frodo asked in alarm.

“You’ll not much like this, I’m afraid,” Strider said. “But this  
will make it easier for me to do a lengthy exam. And I must  
see if all is well with the babe. I do not think it will be long  
now for you. You are nearly as large as a lady nearly ready  
to birth is.”

“But the babe cannot survive if he is born now,” Frodo said.

Strider was quiet for a moment, and Frodo wondered if he  
was deliberately ignoring the comment, which angered him.  
Then he sighed. “We shall see,” he finally said. “Do not fear.”  
He took Frodo’s other foot and placed it in the second  
stirrup. Frodo’s thighs felt stretched, and his skin was chilled  
and vulnerable. That Strider was looking at him, naked and  
exposed – Frodo’s cheeks burned.

“Why must you do this?” he murmured. “Surely you can  
look…up there…just fine without this contraption.”

Strider laughed a little. He poked around Frodo’s bottom,  
probing at the delicate skin surrounding it. “The blisters are  
much better. Do they pain you at all?”

“Not as much as they did before,” Frodo said. “Will  
they…will they harm the baby?”

“That is my concern,” Strider said. “That is why I hope this  
salve I am using on them will make them go away before  
your time comes. Though they may never fully go away.”

“How did it happen? Is it because of…” Frodo gestured at his  
belly. Still, he could not seem to look at Strider in the eyes.  
“Just talking about his condition led him to stuttering and  
mumbling and blushing so hard he felt like his face might  
catch fire.

“Frodo,” Strider said. “Frodo, look at me.”

Frodo forced himself to meet Strider’s gaze.

“Was Bill Ferny the only one?”

Frodo realized just what Strider was asking, and he felt like  
he had been punched hard. His humiliation was complete.  
He closed his eyes, wishing that the bed would open up and  
dump him deep inside a cavern far, far away from this room.

“No,” Frodo whispered. He waited to see the disgust on  
Strider’s face, but it never came. He looked as impassive as  
he always did.

“Those men were filthy,” Strider said. “And whatever they  
had, they gave to you.” He smiled, not giving Frodo a chance  
to simmer in new humiliation. “Judging from your size now, I  
would say you have another month or so to go.”

Frodo’s heart sped. “But what will happen…Will it be like a  
woman, with pain and –“

“There will certainly be pain, yes.”

Strider took a metal object, and it gleamed like a freshly  
polished sword.

“What are you doing with that?” Frodo asked, trying to pull  
his feet out of the stirrups. Strider grabbed his feet and held  
them still.

“Do not fear.” Strider smiled, just a little. But Frodo cried out  
as cold metal entered him, widening him until he did not  
think he could be widened further. It was nearly like when Bill  
Ferny and his friends had first taken him – only without the  
thrusting pain. He gasped while Strider’s hand groped  
inside.

“The baby lives,” Strider said with a smile, pulling out the  
metal object.

“I could have told you that,” Frodo snapped.

“Everything looks all right.”

Frodo gasped for breath, holding his rounded belly. He felt a  
gentle kick, and he knew all was well.

  
***

The banging on the door was insistant, but Frodo was afraid  
to answer. It was probably somebody that knew Strider and  
had no idea that Frodo was here, and Frodo wanted to keep  
it that way. He had no desire to wander around town or show  
himself to anyone, especially with the shame of his  
imprisonment and his unnatural condition.

Suddenly the door flew open.

“Frodo!” A drunken voice called.

Frodo curled in his bed, so scared he could not move. Utterly  
paralyzed.

“Frodo!”

Heavy footsteps clomped into the room and then a rough  
hand yanked him up. Bill Ferny!

“Bill..” Frodo gasped. He had thought Strider said he had  
taken care of Bill Ferny! He trembled terribly in the strong  
grip. “What…”

“Oh, where’s your ranger friend? Gone away? Pity…then he  
won’t be able to witness the horrible thing that’s going to  
happen to you today.”

“No…no…please.”

“And I’ve heard that you’re one of them unnatural hobbits  
now, with a baby in the belly. Let me see for myself. It’s  
most likely my son anyways, even if he is a half breed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you know it ain’t Longshanks’. He don’t much like  
hobbits, as far as I know. I’d take care of you both real good,  
Frodo.”

“You’ll leave me in peace now.”

“Or what?” He laughed cruelly, and his breath stank of ale.

“Please…” Frodo pleaded. “You’ve done enough to me.  
Please leave me in peace.”

“Naw, I think I’ll not leave until I have a piece of you again.  
Either that, or I want my son.”

“Even if he were yours,” Frodo said, holding his belly with  
fierce protectiveness. “And I wanted you to have him, he is  
not large enough yet. And I suggest you leave because  
Strider will be back at any moment, and if he finds you here,  
he will kill you.”

“You always were beautiful when angry, my love. Do you  
scream when Longshanks takes you? Or is he a little more  
gentle?”

Frodo struggled out of bed, trying to get past Bill, but Bill  
pushed him back on the bed. He missed, and Frodo fell to  
the floor, hard on his back. He cried out, and tried to get up,  
but Bill’s hard boot stomped on his belly.

“No!” Frodo cried, protecting his belly with both his arms.  
“Leave us!”

Bill kicked Frodo’s back with all his strength, sending more  
bright flashes of unbelievable agony through Frodo. Now  
he could not even cry out. Bill was going to hurt him and kill  
the baby, and there was nothing he could do about it.  
Strider would not come back in time. Nobody could save  
him.

“If I can’t have ya, then nobody can,” Bill said, delivering a  
final kick to Frodo’s back again. “I won’t slice your throat like  
I oughta, because I’m going to take ya now!”

Bill lifted Frodo, causing a flare of pain through his whole  
body. Frodo writhed in his arms, gasping and clasping at his  
back. He yelled, so bad was it, and yelled again. Bill  
slapped his face and bid him to shut his mouth, but he could  
not help it. His hoarse cries he knew would go on  
unanswered. Another spasm of pain took him, and then  
another. Bill stuffed a wad of filthy cloth in his mouth, and  
took him into the night.

He yelled again, but it was muffled against his gag. He  
shivered violently in the cold evening breeze. He cried out  
as pain after pain inundated him. Bill did not put him gently  
on the horse, and the motion of the horse only increased the  
pain. The pain was likely to finish him off anyway, so he  
wished it to be sooner rather than later.

“It’s coming…” Frodo gasped, although he knew even Bill  
could not hear him. “It’s too early…”

Bill swung him off the horse and carried him, again none too  
gently, into the house. He threw him down on a rickety cot.  
“There! You’ll birth the brat there!”

Frodo was in too much pain to argue. He felt the sticky  
warmth of gushing blood. “It’s too late. I’m losing it. It’s too  
early.”

“Shut your mouth.” Bill took off his gag. “Go ahead and  
scream now. Nobody can hear ya here.”

Frodo wished he could do just the opposite. He wished he  
could be stoic and silent, something to show Bill he was no  
longer that weak hobbit, submissive to Bill’s wants. He bit  
his lip until it bled, but he could not stop cry after cry from  
leaving his lips. Blood soaked the cot, and Bill did nothing.  
He did nothing to comfort Frodo, not even with a cloth to his  
brow. Frodo writhed and kicked, just wanting to be over. He  
knew it was too late to save the babe, but at least the pain –  
he wanted it to end and soon.

“I’m losing it, Bill, is this what you wanted? I’m losing it!”

“I don’t really care much. I wouldn’t need a half-breed runt  
anyway. And your Strider’s a fool. He thought he’d put me  
away forever in prison but it was that fool Malin, the one who  
bruised you up nice and good once. All I said is that he was  
Bill, and Strider had him taken care of.” Bill laughed. “Fool!”

***

The door burst open and unbelievably, there was Strider, his  
hair in sweaty strings, his face grimy and furious. “You’ll not  
cross me again,” he said. And he cut down Bill before he  
could take in a breath to answer. Frodo watched in a glaze  
of half-delirious awe. The baby was lost and birthed already,  
but he was bleeding so much. He was sure he would die and  
it would be all over.

“Strider…Strider…” he said.

“Frodo.” Strider’s two hands covered Frodo’s face. “I am  
sorry I was not here sooner. So sorry.”

“You could not know,” Frodo said. “The baby…is lost.”

“I know. But I will not have you lost as well. This place is  
filthy, but it will have to do for now. I must stop your  
bleeding.”

Strider lit all the lanterns in the place. Flies buzzed around,  
and there was the stench of filth to the air. Frodo coughed,  
and each time he coughed, he felt more blood rush from  
him.

“Damn you!” Strider cried out. “What kind of monster would  
do this! But Frodo you are wrong, the baby lives.”

“What?” Frodo was so shocked that he was able to lift  
himself up by his elbows. “What do you mean?”

“He still breathes.”

“He? He is alive? But it is too soon!”

“I do not know. Perhaps we did not calculate correctly when  
the babe was to be born.”

“He lives?” Frodo burst into weary tears. He felt the life pulse  
out of him as more and more blood seeped from him. And  
he was glad that at least if he did not survive, the baby had a  
chance now, and that he trusted Strider more than anyone  
else to find a wonderful home for him.

***

Frodo lay wrapped in blankets back in the bed in Strider’s  
cottage. He was pale and sore, and he had not had a full  
meal in a long time due to his nausea. He was bandaged  
and felt as if he had been put together by tape. He coughed  
again. Strider brought the baby in again.

“How is he?”

“Still weak, but it seems he will live.”

Frodo smiled wanly. “I am glad beyond glad. It makes it all  
worth it.”

“And perhaps Bill did you a favor, knocking you around like  
that. If the babe had grown much larger you may not have  
survived the birth. As it was, it was touch and go.”

Frodo looked up at Strider plaintively. “What now?”

Strider paused, and for a moment, Frodo saw that he  
definitely knew what he meant before he masked it with fake  
puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  
END


End file.
